


If My Yesterday Was a Disgrace (Tell Me That You Still Recall My Name)

by chewysugar



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Anger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Frozen (2013) References, Nicknames, Post Curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 15:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10699824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Adam lashes out in a moment of anger. Belle helps him see that it doesn't make him a beast.





	If My Yesterday Was a Disgrace (Tell Me That You Still Recall My Name)

He’d known nothing but cold and dark for so long. When the sunlight finally broke through the obsidian night, melting at the ice and warming him to his core, it nearly took his breath away.

It still does to this very day. His castle—his home—had been nothing but crumbling stones and moth-eaten furniture for immeasurable years. Seeing it now is alike to being in The Garden of Eden. Adam finds himself counting the panes in each stained glass window on a lazy day, or following the motes of dust as they dance in patches of light on the marble floors.

All around him is noise and life. Laughter, the likes of which he’d often killed with his mere presence, sounds throughout the halls of his home. There’s no room for malaise or despair here in the revitalized palace. His servants—no, his _friends_ —are simply so happy to be alive, to have their limbs and voices back, that scarcely a day goes by when they do not whistle while they work.

And the music.

One of his deepest regrets was the traveling maestro and his beautiful diva being trapped by the curse simply through their having been at the castle the night the curse was cast. He expected them to return to their native Italy, but word soon spread that the people of Villeneuve were seeking a songstress and a musician to teach the children. And so they stay there, and when they don’t tarry in the village, they’re chasing away whatever shadows there are in Adam’s castle with the sounds of their joint symphony.

There are shadows, still. For though the curse was broken, doing so hasn’t rid his life of difficulty. He still mourns for all that was lost during his time as a Beast; still has the repercussions of his long absence to deal with. The mundanity of having a kingdom weighs on him on some days, and its enough to bring something clawing through his mended heart—something he had hoped to have rid himself of after the Enchantress lifted her curse.

They frighten him, these moments of irritability, and he does everything in his power to swallow them down—to be patient and kind. But sometimes he can’t control his temper, and in those moments, he feels that old crippling self-loathing steal upon him once more.

For the life of him, Adam can’t even remember what in the world it was that the little bespectacled man across from him even came to the castle for. Only that’s it’s something to do with matters of money. Gold has been the last thing on the prince’s mind for time immemorial. The mantle clock—the stationary, ordinary, not sentient mantle clock—has only ticked at least five minutes, and in that time, the prince comes to understand that he’s being scammed.

He first glares at the little man, then calms himself and settles for staring at the settee near the fireplace.

Then, a moment later, he feels a grumpy growl rising in his chest.

“I understand what you’re trying to say.” He’s choosing his words slowly, carefully, because he doesn’t at all like the heat in his blood at the moment. “But I’m afraid it’s been quite a good many years since my kingdom has done proper trade with Weasel Town.”

The little man stiffens, his mustache bristling, and Adam feels his irritation mount. “ _Weselton_ ,” the man corrects. “And as Duke, I’ll have you know that I take great pride in the name of my country.”

“My apologies,” Adam grates out. “But what you’re suggesting…well, it seems like extortion to me. There was never an agreement made between our kingdoms in years previous for any sort of trade tariff.”

The Duke’s beady little eyes turn to slits.

“Yes,” he says shrewdly. “Although it’s somewhat impossible to have done any sort of proper governing when you were…absent. One does hear strange tales carried on the trade routes.”

Adam stills in his chair. It seems the very thing the weasely little man is hoping for—he grins like a cat about to pounce on an innocent songbird.

“Of course, it may have been nothing more than superstitious nonsense. But then again, no one the world over seems to have any memory of you until recently. Some folk say you were cursed, you know.” The Duke continues to grin, and, unable to prevent it any longer, Adam lets the horrible, yellow-eyed, growling thing in his chest out of the cage he’s so carefully constructed.

Outside the big, long room used for affairs of state and the like, all is peaceful. Mrs. Potts is doing her duty, helping oversee the housekeeping staff as they clean the castle’s many, many rooms. Her son, Chip, is entertaining Madame de Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza’s little dog, Frou Frou, while musician and singer read by the fireplace. Relieved of their duties for the time being, Lumiere and Cogsworth are engaged in a new game of chess, both sending friendly barbs each other’s way. New to the staff, the young LeFou is doing his best to keep up in the kitchens, although he’s really watching through the window as Stanley brushes down a mare in the riding paddock outside. It’s an idyllic day in a place that has seen its fair share of dark doings and sorrow.

And in one moment the peace is shattered by a tremendous roar that startles Mrs. Potts into dropping a priceless ornament to the floor, sends Frou Frou scampering into Chip’s arms, causes the Maestro to spill ink all over his book, results in Cogsworth snapping his white bishop in half out of sheer surprise and sends the tureen of hot bisque in LeFou’s hands sloshing over the kitchen floor and onto the poor young man’s feet.

A resounding crash fills the air, and several seconds later the terrified Duke of Weselton is seen running for his puny life down the stairs and out the door to his awaiting carriage.

Back in the big, long room, the prince stands breathing heavily. He stares at the remains of the destroyed chair that he threw after the Duke. His vision is one of pure red, but as his pulse deadens to normal, his anger is replaced by a feeling of shame so profound that it twists his guts. Then cold horror descends on him at what he’s done.

Reeling, Adam turns and flees, not even bothering to answer the concerned inquiries of Lumiere, Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts as he hurries down the stairs, through one of the many corridors of his home and on. Then he’s outside, running through the late evening air, the sounds of the horses in the stables and the lazy hum of bees completely drowned out by the pounding of blood in his ears.

He gets lost in the labyrinth of hedges and marble walls out back. He can’t turn around to face the castle—can only let himself get lost in its lengthening shadow as the sun sets behind it. He feels diseased, contaminated.

Roses of all kinds and colors pass by him as he hurries, panting and breathless, deeper into the maze. As he hurtles over a small stream of water in the maze, he refuses to look at his own reflection, terrified that he’ll see nothing but his old beastly face staring back at him.

It’s been so long since he’s had reason to lash out at anything. He can’t even remember how long it’s been since he’s been free of the curse, only that it hasn’t been long enough that he doesn’t wake, at times, in a cold sweat in the memory of a nightmare—one where he is stuck in that hideous form forever—where he is a creature incapable of being loved or loving in return.

A broad waxing gibbous moon hangs high over the castle grounds by the time Adam stops, somewhere near the center of the maze. There’s a stitch in his side and he’s sweating through all his finery. Leaning against a marble column, he wipes his brow. Then, snarling again at his lack of control, he tears at his sweat-sodden clothes until cravat, coat and waistcoat are a tattered pile on the path. The cool night air feels incredible on him, even though he’s still in a simply button up shirt and breeches.

But it isn’t enough to drive away his sense of sickening disgust. He shouldn’t have risen to the Duke’s goad. He can’t let himself return to that beastly place, not now that he has so much to live and be thankful for and love.

One of these things is quietly singing from further within the maze.

Adam freezes.

How could she be out here so late? She said she was stepping out to do some reading earlier, but he didn’t anticipate…but of course he should have. He knows what she’s like when a book grabs her, really grabs her. And it’s one of the innumerable things that he loves and respects.

Adam follows the sounds of the quiet singing as if it’s a beacon in a storm. He finds her, lounging on the edge of one of the ornate pearl fountain in the maze’s heart. Trellises of flowers surround her. She trails a lazy hand through the crystal waters of a fountain, a small book in her hand.

He hovers near the edge, watching her quietly. His Belle, his beautiful Belle—his salvation, his love…his new bride. Seeing her, hearing her is enough to drive away some of the darkness. Adam’s feet move of their own volition towards her and, ever attuned to her surroundings, Belle looks his way.

When she sees the state of his clothing, her ever-expressive eyebrows arch.  “What are you doing out here, _mon bête_?”  

Mon bête. My beast. It had surprised Adam that he’d taken to the endearment when Belle had started using it.  

“I could ask you the same thing, my love.” Adam takes a breath, and lets it out in a shuddering exhale as he saunters through the center of the maze towards the one person who had the power to lighten his life. “Can you even see the words at this point?” 

“Not entirely.” Belle smooths the front of her skirts. She, like Adam, hasn’t taken to the decorum of fashioned called for by people of their station. While her clothes are still beautiful, they aren’t needlessly extravagant.  

Adam sinks to the edge of the fountain beside Belle. Then, unable to stop himself, he buries his head in his hands, the memory of what he’d done in the castle creeping up on him like an ice-cold wraith. His shoulders shake; he isn’t one to stave off crying, not in the presence of the woman who understands him soul deep. Belle does not ask him what is the matter, not at first. She closes her book, lays her hands on his shoulders and holds him as he continues to fall apart.

Then, remembering that he is a prince and also a man, Adam finally regains some semblance of control over his emotions. He finally looks up, staring at a wall of purple dahlia flowers, savoring the feeling of Belle’s clever, kind fingers combing through his hair.

 “I wish you hadn’t seen me like that.” 

“Nonsense,” Belle says decidedly. “What happened, Adam?” 

“I…lost my temper. I shouted at the Duke of Weasel Town and broke a chair.” 

If Adam hadn’t been gazing sidelong at Belle, he wouldn’t have known that the sharp sound that is coming out of her mouth is a laugh. To her credit, Belle tries to regain something of her composure, but she fails—her face crumples into sheer delight and she continues to laugh, long and loudly, burying her face in Adam’s shoulder.

“Thank you for understanding,” Adam says grumpily. He sighs again, running his fingers through his hair. “I suppose it _is_ childish.” He allows himself to smile because, yes, at the end of the day, falling to pieces as he did over something so trivial, is foolish. “It’s only that it brought me back to that place. Back to when all I ever knew was anger. When all I ever did was growl and yell and destroy things.” 

Belle sighs, her laughter finally dying. And when she lifts her head to look at him, there’s such understanding in her eyes that it almost makes Adam want to cry again.  

Then she takes him by the wrist, pulling him to his feet. Surprised, Adam lets Belle lead him back through the maze, over the paths that seemed so long and agonizing when first he ran them. They disappear through the doors of the castle. There’s a smile on Belle’s flawless face as she leads her perplexed prince up the staircase, past the stunned Mrs. Potts and into their grand bedroom.  

“Belle, what are you— 

“Showing you something, _mon bête_.” She pulls him towards a floor length mirror and then stands behind him. Adam feels heat prickle over his skin as Belle’s arms encircle him from behind. She begins to unbutton his shirt, and then pulls it from his shoulders. Adam feels pleasant heat pool in his gut. She stays behind him, arms around his waist as she looks into the mirror.  “Look, Adam.” Belle nods at their reflections. “Tell me what you see.”  

He takes in his face—the cut of his jaw and the brush of stubbly beard he’s been growing out at Belle’s request. His eyes are blue, crinkled at the sides from laughter or age, he can’t really tell which. He isn’t nearly as strong in his muscles as he could be—but it’s a lean strength, like a wiry wildcat.  

“I see…my body,” he says, nonplussed.

Belle nods, running her fingers over his shoulder and down his arm. She takes his wrist, and leads his hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart, and covering it with her own.  

“Tell me what you feel.” 

“My heart beating.” 

“Your _human_ heart.” She’s smiling at him, even as she continues to ghost her fingers over his flesh. “I felt that beating when we danced together that night. I knew it was always there. And it still is.”  

Adam doesn’t want to smile, because he still hates himself for having lost control earlier that day. But the memory of that dance, and the feeling of Belle’s soft, warm hands smoothing over his skin, makes him unable to hold onto his own gloom.  

“You are human, _mon bête_ ,” Belle continues. “And if you are human—well and truly human with all the flaws that come with that, then you will be angry. Many times. You will say and do things that you regret. But it doesn’t make you anything other than what you are—human. A beautiful, strong, kindhearted human. Nothing will take that away from you, least of all yelling at the Duke of Weasel Town.” 

Adam’s fingers thread through hers. He spins Belle around, taking her into his arms, holding the warmth of her body against the bare strength of his chest. He kisses the top of her head, feeling the nearness of her against his skin.  

“Why must you always make things better for me?” He laughs softly into her hair. “I’m the spoiled prince, remember? Don’t you know I want nothing more than to wallow in self pity?” 

“I do.” Belle trails her hands to his, and soon they’re in motion to a tuneless dance. “I have a rather exclusive knowledge of that. But what kind of wife would I be if I didn’t henpeck my beloved husband?” 

Adam sighs, lifting her up and setting her on the edge of his sprawling, luxurious bed.  

“The most amazing wife in the world.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, please :) The title of this story comes, as most of my works do lately, from song: Cactus in the Valley by Lights.


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